Almost a Gentleman (32 page)

She loosened her silk peignoir and smoothed her muslin nightgown over her body. Ummm, that felt lovely; she cupped her breasts, feeling their weight, as she hummed a happy private tune to herself. Vague plans and gauzy fantasies filled her head. There were decisions to make: she and John had begun a delightful debate about how and when to announce their engagement. And when to marry: they both rather liked the idea of spring, but could all the arrangements really be made in such a short time? A pity that Phoebe wasn't here to advise her. Or perhaps not, Kate thought; a married couple ought to get into the habit of making their own decisions.

They might even resolve it at luncheon tomorrow, before setting off together to visit the gentleman with connections in Amsterdam. The black pouch was locked in the drawer of her dressing table, while the sandalwood box sat next to the brush she'd just put down. Pretty box, she thought, fragrant, too. And yet somehow malevolent: having placed it among her things, she'd taken rather extreme pains not to touch it again. The panels of smooth sandalwood at its top and sides seemed to contain a universe of perverse, buzzing human evils. Pandora's box.

Well,
there's
a foolish fancy, she thought.
I must stop wondering about those letters
, she scolded herself. Tomorrow, first thing, I'll lock them up in the safe, along with the remainder of the jewels—the ones I'm not sending to Amsterdam this time. I won't read a word of the letters; I won't even open the box, no matter how curious I am. She shook her head, sighed, and blew out the candle, surrendering herself to joyful thoughts and sweet dreams, and hoping that Phoebe, in her own impatient, impetuous manner, was spending an equally happy evening.

But Phoebe, wearing her pale pink dressing gown and pacing in front of the fire in her bedchamber, wasn't acting at all impetuously at the moment. She'd been obliged, on the contrary, to exercise quite extraordinary and uncharacteristic forbearance since arriving at Linseley Manor.

She was waiting. She hated waiting.

Though she had to admit it was a lovely room in which to wait. The green bedchamber, they called it.

Yes, you did understand me correctly, Mrs. Oughton
, David had said.
No, you weren't mistaken
, Miss Browne
will
be staying in the green bedchamber. Have Harper bring her luggage there, and ring for Lissie to help her unpack her things.

He'd sounded a bit peremptory, Phoebe thought. Well, perhaps "peremptory" was too strong a word. Still, there'd been a stubborn edge to his voice, in sudden contrast to the warmth of his conversation with the servants gathered in the entrance hall to greet him—Stevens the butler, Mrs. Oughton the housekeeper, and Mrs. Yonge the cook. While she'd been waiting for the chambermaid to take her to her room, Phoebe had seen quite clearly how pleased his employees were to have him home.

And how suspicious they were of the lady he'd brought with him from London.

Smiling stiffly, nodding as gracefully as she could in response to their veiled, skeptical glances, she'd drifted up and down the entrance hall, pretending to be interested in the equally stiff—sometimes embalmed-looking—oil portraits of former earls and countesses of Linseley. Occasionally a familiar smile or pair of dark blue eyes lit one of the faces staring back at her from across the generations, making her feel a bit less like an intruder.

Suits of armor stood guard at the corners of the room, old swords—quite interesting, some of them—were mounted on the walls. The hall was a long, barrel-ceilinged chamber; she could just make out a series of paintings on the curved panels above her head—Saint George again, it seemed, in various stages of victory over a scaly, fire-breathing, and highly vexed dragon. All the while, bits and pieces of David's conversation drifted up to the curved ceiling vaults and echoed back down to her.

"So the village children liked that new style of holiday cracker I sent from London, did they? Oh good, what a relief—nothing worse than a cracker that doesn't crack, don't you agree, Stevens?

"No more trouble with your sciatica, Mrs. Oughton? Well, heaven be praised for that, eh? It's true, it has been a dry winter, though that storm coming down from the north may well…

"No doubt about it, Mrs. O., you did exactly the right thing, getting the roof repaired. Nasty spot, the tiles always blow off there in a storm, but we'll be snug and ready this time.

"And Mrs. Yonge's cousin seems to have done did a tip-top job with it, though I'll just climb up on the ladder to have a little peek myself tomorrow. Oh I'm sure I'll find his bill eminently reasonable. Thank you, Mrs. Yonge, for recommending him, and I'm delighted that your granddaughter liked the doll. Well, she should have a splendid present. After all, three years old is a very important birthday.

"No, no supper at all. Quite full, I assure you, but could you promise to save the ham for our breakfast?"

She'd left him conversing on these and many other equally fascinating matters when the maid came to fetch her.

The rooms on the way to her bedchamber had looked large, square, a bit old-fashioned, by the light of the chambermaid's lamp. Though it was clearly a rather grand house, comfortable and well cared for, Linseley Manor wasn't in the least showy, she thought. She liked that. But why were they stopping here, in front of those tall double doors, finished in light oak?

"Is this it, Lissie?" Phoebe had expected her room to be upstairs. Weekend country house parties were all the rage among the
ton
: and so all the fashionable people of her acquaintance had moved their bedchambers to the upper floors, reserving the space below for parlors, saloons, and galleries through which their guests might circulate. Well, but David wasn't a very fashionable person, was he?

"This is it exactly, miss." The chambermaid nodded vigorously, surprised in her turn that this ninny of a London lady could have had any doubt of it. She opened the doors, and Phoebe followed her into the room, staring about her with increasing wonder.

Oh, I see
, she thought slowly.
Oh dear
. No wonder Mrs. Oughton had been surprised that he'd wanted to put her here.

The room was large and beautifully proportioned; French doors led to what she suspected had been a lady's garden. The rug was a delicate Aubusson worked in a rose design; the damasks that covered the wall were pale gray-green, the upholstery just a shade brighter; the graceful moldings were painted a rich cream color. The generous hearth, with a good fire in it, was done in creamy enameled Belgian tile, some of the tiles had elaborate lacy bas-relief designs molded into them. There were portraits on the walls here too, but these were much more intimate and pleasant than the ones in the entrance hall: paintings of smiling family groups, featuring dogs, picnic baskets, children and their toys.

She could have done without the children and their toys.

A luxurious dressing room, where Lissie had hung Phoebe's clothes, led off to the right, next to a glorious marble bathroom and water closet. To the left, there was another door. Well, she knew whose bedchamber
that
one led to. For this gorgeous green room, where David had insisted she stay, was manifestly
not
a guest room. It was the room where the countesses of Linseley had slept.

By putting her here, he'd made a clear statement of his intentions—both to her and perforce to his servants. The statement demanded a response. She shook her head sadly. However could she respond?

The door to his room rattled, opened. He wore a dark blue velvet dressing gown and slippers.

She looked up anxiously.
Please
, she thought,
don't ask me how I like the room
. He didn't. Obviously, there were more pressing issues to be dealt with at the moment. Tonight the distance between their bodies dissolved without either of them even knowing how.

"Lord," he sighed, after some long, urgent kisses, "what a chaste and dutiful day we've spent."

She laughed. "You must make it up to me. Immediately."

"But not in here," he murmured. "It's too ladylike a venue for what I have in mind."

He took her hand and led her back through the door.

Yes
, she thought,
this is better
. Dark heavy old furniture, chairs upholstered in leather with bright brass studs. The walls were covered with framed maps, architectural drawings, mechanical diagrams.

He lifted her onto a massive bed with a high, carved headboard. Somehow, both their dressing gowns had slipped to the floor since they'd entered the room. They ran their hands over one another's bodies, staring into each other's eyes, taking their signals from the gasps and moans they coaxed from one another's lips. There hardly seemed a need for all this play, she thought; his penis was hard, beautifully velvety beneath her fingertips. He could enter her right now: she could feel the heat, the wetness, the luxuriant easing between her legs.

And yet he didn't enter her. Patiently, delicately, he caressed her, his fingers so light against the slit of her quim that she thought she would expire. He wanted her to ask for what she wanted.

She wouldn't. She couldn't. She was comfortable with touch, but timid with words. Words were too… intimate.

Oh, but he'd moved his hand: now it was only his thumb that rested along the damp line bisecting the mound of her vulva. The rest of his hand simply cupped her, there between her legs—as though she were a goblet resting in his palm—his fingertips moving softly along the bottom curve of her arse. As though he were pausing in thought before making a toast at a banquet.

"Such a beautiful bum," he murmured. "Its curve, its lineaments so visible through Marston's trousers. You should have been arrested for incitement to riot."

He seemed content simply to trace the shape of her bottom, perfectly pleased by such a gentle, meditative caress. As though it didn't matter in the slightest how much time passed before his body's evident desires were finally satisfied. As though it were of no importance whatsoever what
she
might want, or whether she wanted anything at all.

Or course, she thought, she could always
ask
for what she wanted.

His touch became softer. More diffident, if possible. In a moment he might remove his hand altogether.

Ask for it
? Bloody hell, she thought, she'd
beg tot
it.

Her voice trembled. It sounded high and thin in her ears, as though she'd lost her rich lower register.

"
Please
, David."

"Please what?"

"P-please, David, I want you inside of me."

"Hmmm, which part of me do you want?"

"I want your… ah, finger."

"Ah, well here it is then. Are you satisfied?"

"Yes, it's very… hmmm…
nice
." Damn him, it was hard to speak between gasps.

"Just nice, eh?"

"No, it's… wonderful… but…"

"But?"

"But it's not enough. Oh God, David…"

"Another finger perhaps?"

"All your fingers, add them one at a time, oh but… please, David…"

"But what?"

"But
nothing
, damn your eyes," she bellowed. "
Yes, all of them. Now
!"

She lay back upon the pillows, throwing her arms over her head to grasp the bed's headboard. Digging her toes into the velvet coverlet, she lifted her hips into the air to follow the vigorous, sweeping arcs he made with his forearm. He knelt beside her, smiling to see her so helpless and yet so greedy. He threw a leg over her, straddling her belly and then inching himself forward; his knees were around her shoulders now, though it seemed he could still reach behind him with his arm, because his fingers—his fist, his
knuckles
, Dear Lord—were still within her. She tilted her pelvis a bit, so he wouldn't have to reach so far back. Quickly he slipped a bolster behind her neck, to angle her head closer to him.

He probed at her mouth with the head of his penis. Quickly, she licked the pearl of moisture from its tip. She widened her lips to take him in, to feel him lengthen and—was it possible?—harden even more as he pushed toward her throat. She sucked, pulled at him, arching her neck and spine to allow him to enter as deeply as possible into the back of her mouth. When he pulled back, so that she might caress the tip with her tongue and lips, she felt the weight of his balls, the wiry hair beneath them tickling the tops of her breasts. His hand, though still in her, was quieter. He wanted his own pleasure first, she thought.

Well, all right then, my lord, you shall have it.

She moved down on the bolster, burrowing her face between his legs, flattening her mouth against his belly. She pulled with the muscles of her cheeks, harder and yet not so hard as to distract him from the lascivious flicking and stroking of her tongue. He moved his hips, answering her mouth's caresses with his own short, hard thrusts.

She heard him groan. She saw the muscles of his belly tighten. Tighten and tremble now as well. She breathed his dark earth smell. The salts and vapors of him seemed to seep through her pores; she feasted on his private, pungent flavors: sour, salt, bitter; yeasty, like good bread rising. She opened, loosened, lost herself; she needn't, she couldn't, caress him any longer, she had only to contain him now, to absorb him, to receive what issued from him. To drink him.